


The Awakening

by Littlefeather



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Comfort/Angst, F/M, Love, Major Character Injury, Major Character Undeath, Marriage, Resurrection, Temporary Amnesia, Warging
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-10 08:47:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5579053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littlefeather/pseuds/Littlefeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After escaping Kings Landing, Sandor and Sansa get captured by the Brotherhood and Sansa accidentally gets killed. Arya and Sandor force Thoros of Myr to resurrect her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [irismoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/irismoon/gifts).



_Stupid Little bird_ ; she never listened to him and now she had paid the price. When the Brotherhood surrounded them, Sansa had refused to ride away on Stranger. Despite the pleas of her hellion of a little sister, she refused to leave the cave before the fight.

The pretty bird - who once only chirped courtesies - had vehemently refuted Beric's bullshit charges against him. When all attempts at reason failed, she threatened to have her brother hang the lot of them. In the end, his beautiful Sansa had refused to move away from Beric’s blade and gave her life for his own.

His burned flesh forgotten, Sandor Clegane sobbed at the cruelty of it all. His precious Sansa was the first to love him, and now her lifeblood bathed his hands. He slipped his knife through her ruined gown, revealing her injury, and saw that the flaming blade cauterized the outer edges of the wound. Mayhap she would heal after all, Sandor allowed himself to hope, if given time. That is, until she coughed up blood.

“Sandor,” crimson foam bubbled from her lips with each breath, “I love you. I will wait for you in the afterlife.”

Many times Sansa had sung those pretty words to him, particularly after they made love. She was the only person to say such to him, and it left him too overwhelmed to speak. He had never said the words to her; at least not while she was awake. But Sandor loved her too. And now, wretchedness choked his words, and he couldn’t bring himself to tell her. Anguish seared through his chest. Stubbornness killed her, Sandor cursed, just as sure as the red priest’s ill-fated sword. Yet another knight had destroyed him; but this time, Sandor would see him pay with his life.

“No!” Sandor’s tormented screams echoed through the cave. For a moment he didn’t realize the shouting was coming from his own lips. “Don’t leave me alone is this bloody, thrice damned world, little bird!” He pleaded into her ear. “Don’t you fucking do it! Fight, do you hear me. FIGHT!”

“I see Father, Arya,” Sansa’s eyes were wide and unfocused. “He’s with Jory and Lady.”

“Sansa, no, don’t go,” Arya clutched her sister’s hand. “Stay with us.”

“I do not wish to go, but it seems I must.” Sansa coughed again, and Sandor frantically wiped her mouth. He would not let her go to the Stranger without a fight. Her soft hand cupped his cheek. “Sandor, I thought we would have longer together. I’m not sorry that I tried to protect you-"

“Shh, don’t try to talk. You saved me.” He tore off his cloak and pressed it against the gaping wound in her belly.

Whimpering, Sansa's head lolled. "You will find love again, Sandor, I know it. You must go on for me."

Sobbing, Sandor pressed his lips to her forehead. "No more such talk."

Outside the cave, the wolves serenaded them, an ancient, primal requiem for their lady.

“I see wolves, I see them all around me.” A milky white glaze washed over her eyes. “I smell them. And the earth-“

“Lady’s welcoming you, Sansa.” Arya cried softly. “It’s no use. Go to her.”

“I love you both,” Sansa mouthed, but no sound came from her throat. She drew a deep breath and fell limp.

Roaring in agony, Sandor fell to his knees, burying his face in her hair as he clutched her to his chest.

Arya’s pet rushed in then. The ferocious beast's huge body encompassed the space around them.

“I didn’t mean to kill her,” Beric declared. “She was my lord’s get, I would never hurt her. She came between us and – “

The wolf bitch's shrieking ripped through the silence, a sound as fierce and primal as the wolf song outside. _She will find no relief for her grief,_ he mused, _nor will I._ Neither the wolf nor the girl could bring back Sansa. Snarling, rending flesh, and anguished cries surrounded him, but Sandor paid it no mind. Covering Sansa’s limp body with his own, he pulled her closer to him and wept.

Sandor glimpsed Robert’s bastard pulling Arya off of Beric’s lifeless body. The cave fell silent. How long he held her, Sandor did not know. He only knew that he could not turn her loose; he would not relinquish his wife to death.

After some time, he laid Sansa on the ground and stepped back. People were speaking but Sandor could not understand their words; he could only stare at the red congealing on his hands. Sansa’s blood was the purist ever to stain his skin. A twisted anointing of Sandor’s sinful flesh, a baptism into a new life - one without the little bird. It was the cruelest mockery of his agnosticism. As he lifted Sansa’s body from the damp cave floor, Clegane vowed that he would never take life as a soldier.

A rustling caught Sandor's ear.

“I will bring her back, Clegane.” Thoros’ voice broke the stillness. “It is only right. The magic of R’hllor killed her but it was not by his will."

"Murdered," Sandor corrected as he brushed Sansa's hair away from her eyes. "He murdered Sansa. My wife."

"I understand your thinking." Thoros shifted from one foot to the other.

"Bugger that, and you."

"The Lord of Light wishes her to live again. To deny him would be fatal for us all.”

 _You survived the wolf’s attack. A pity._ Already Clegane regretted his vow.

“Fatal for us all?” Sandor's mirthless, hysterical laughter ground against the walls of the cave. "For you, more like."

“He will bring Sansa back from the dead, Hound.” Arya reiterated, though Sandor noted she was as worried as the rest. “Did you not hear what he said?”

He heard the red priest well enough. Did he dare allow him to try his magic on Sansa - the same magic that cut her life short?

Sandor would rather slit his own throat than be beholden to a fucking fire god. And just how would she return to him? Thoros hadn't said. Would she return as an undead monster? No, he wouldn't risk her suffering for the sake of his own grief.

“Let him do it, Hound,” Arya’s exasperated voice pierced his thoughts. “It’s the least you could do for Sansa. You got her into this mess.”

“Shut your ugly face, wolf bitch,” Clegane seethed in her face, startling the girl. "Or I'll cut out your tongue."

Thoros cautiously reached for Sansa’s cheek.

“Clegane, please, she hasn’t been dead long. She’s warm still, and the sooner we act-“

“Get the fuck away from us!” Sandor snarled, curling protectively around Sansa’s body. “You bloody touch her again and I’ll skin you alive! I'll send you and your fucking fire to the seven hells.”

“R’hllor can raise her, Clegane-“

Livid, Sandor turned his full fury on the man.

“Bugger you and your bloody fire god for this! Justice - you bastards claim you want justice, bah! You won’t be raising my wife to escape it, do you hear me?”

“Clegane,” Thoros tried again, “it isn't like that. And Sansa won’t be like Beric when she returns.”

“When she returns?" Sandor sputtered out. "You’re wanting another undead follower of your cult, is that the way of it?!” Bitter tears blurred his vision. “Fuck all of the buggering gods, the cruel bastards! The little bird was devoted to them, prayed to them for hours on end and look what it got her! Don't speak to me of gods! I’ll burn every last one of them, those bloody weirwood trees, I’ll raze the sept of Baelor to the ground and-”

Panting, Sandor abruptly went silent. Cradling Sansa’s lifeless form closer still, he began rocking back and forth while nonsensically whispering words of comfort to her.

“His mind left him,” the blacksmith whispered, “He's past reason.”

“No, he’s broken by grief,” Thoros sighed. “I’ve felt it before.”

“So have I, for my father.” Arya whispered. “But I’m not losing my sister-not this time.”

Sandor felt their eyes on him as he wrapped Sansa’s body in his cloak but he ignored them.  
The last time his cloak covered Sansa had been their wedded day. They had made their promises in front of a weirwood sapling in the Riverlands. After, Sansa laughed out loud and threw her arms around his neck, covering his face in neck in kisses.

At the first piss poor inn they came across, he bought the best room for their wedded night. It wasn't what Sandor had wanted for her - his little wife deserved so much more than a straw mattress, drafty windows and a smoky fire. But Sansa had delighted when he turned the knob; as far as she was concerned, it might as well have been the finest room in Westeros.

Sansa had smiled so prettily at him while they ate and bathed together. Her cheeks aglow, it was she who had kissed him first, and she who had led him to the bed. Passion had overtaken him, and their lovemaking had an awkward, frenzied quality, but she didn’t seem to mind. Later that night, Sansa sang the sweetest song Sandor had ever heard, one that he wanted to hear for the rest of his days. He should have known it couldn’t last.

Looking down at Sansa, never had Sandor felt so low; he did not want to go on without her. He made up his mind to put a blade through his heart after he killed Beric and join her in the afterlife, if there was such a bloody place.

“Let Thoros resurrect her, Hound.” Arya’s small hand squeezed his arm, tearing him from his thoughts. “He brought back Beric seven times, it’s true, but it won’t be like that for her.”

What Arya was suggesting was beyond belief. Sandor glared into the small girl’s muddy, tear streaked face until Arya shrunk away from him.

“And why in fucking hells would it be any different?”

Uncertainly Arya looked to Thoros, prostrated on the floor, eyes closed.

“Because Sansa just passed,” the red priest rose and folded his hands, “and because the Red God requires my life for hers.”

Turning, Arya pressed her thin blade to the red priest’s throat. “So do the Old Gods,” she spat out, "You better make her whole, Thoros, or my wolf will tear you to pieces. And my father is waiting for you.”

The thought of living without her was excruciating, but could he actually agree to this? Sansa had followed the old gods and the new, and they had let her down. Would the red god be any different?

Gripping the man’s vest, Sandor lifted Thoros off the ground, bringing him mere inches from his face.

"You won't be raising Dondarrion again?"

"No."

“Do it then,” Sandor rasped through gritted teeth, the man hardly able to believe his own words. “Bring her back. But if Sansa isn’t whole, I’ll tear the lungs from your body, priest, and no fucking fire god will be able to save you.”

Nodding once, Thoros knelt, whispered his prayers and pressed his lips to hers.

When the red priest breathed his last, Sansa sat up and screamed.

“Help me,” Sansa weakly cried. “I don’t know what’s happening to me…oh, gods, I can’t breathe. My stomach hurts.” She placed her hand over the wound, and screamed again.

When she locked eyes with him, Sandor noticed they were pale, unearthly. Her milky complexion had a ethereal visage with red gashes of dried blood cutting across her mouth and cheek. She was beautiful, beautiful and yet frightening.

Smiling hesitantly, Sansa held out her hand to him, but Sandor turned craven, frozen in his place, unable to move, hating himself for his weakness. Arya had shoved him aside and rushed to her sister.

“You’re okay now, Sansa,” the she wolf whispered over and over again, smoothing her sister’s hair. “Just breathe slowly, deeply.”

“What has happened to me? I saw wolves, the dirt, then Father and Lady. Then everything went black.”

“Shhh,” Arya stilled her. “It’s okay. I know what you mean about the wolves. It’s happened to me before. But you mustn’t speak of it.” She leaned in close to Sansa’s ear. “And you did pass. I saw it. So did the Hound.”

Her icy eyes gently questioned him. The little bird needs you. You swore to her. The heaviness in his legs lightened. He moved to her side. Without thinking, Sandor took out his handkerchief and began gently wiping her mouth. Her skin was warm and soft, just as it had been in life.

“Aye, your sister speaks true,” he rasped. “You were dead but Thoros brought you back.”

“No! No…you are mistaken, Hound! I-I was with the wolves,” Sansa sobbed out while grasping his wrists, “ and then I was inside one of them. I-I can’t explain it-but I did not pass on-“  
“You did, Sansa.”

Biting her lip, she looked away from him, shaking her head.

“What did you call me?” He stared into her eyes, now blank and fearful.

“Hound,” Sansa softly answered.

Annoyance distilled into fear. “Since when do you call me that?”

“Forgive me. Would you like me to call you by your given name?”

“Aye, I would,” Sandor growled at her, “Hound’s no way to address your lord husband.”

“Husband? We are wed?” Sansa gasped before falling limp once more.


	2. Chapter 2

The low light light revealed darkness would soon shadow the land, and with it, their best opportunity to escape. His own fever spiked, and Sandor felt like shit, but he would not put off leaving the cave. They had spent enough time there.

After bundling Sansa in his cloak, he tucked her against his chest and swung himself onto Stranger’s back.

“Found some more wine for the road, Hound,” Gendry tossed him a flask. “It’s not the good kind you’re used to but it’ll take the edge off those burns.”

“What the fuck would you know about it?” Sandor growled low.

Beside him, Sansa recoiled and wrapped her arms around her chest.

“You needn’t fear me, lass,” he quietly entreated and held out his hand in front of her. “I may bark a bit, but I would never hurt you.”

“I remember. You were the only one who did not to strike me. The only one who tried to help me.” Sansa’s voice was barely above a whisper.

She shuddered and looked up at him with tear filled eyes.

“You were the only one.” Lifting his hand, Sansa clutched it between her breasts like a cherished doll.

 _Like the doll her father gave her_. Sandor bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood.  The memory of her suffering in King’s Landing brought a wave of fury over the man. It was cruel that she recalled her misery there and not the love they shared. 

“A bloody lot of good it did.” Sandor spoke sharper than he intended. “Come now.”

She did not stiffen when he lifted her and took the position she usually did in the saddle, as though her body remembered doing so even if her mind did not. Her small hand patted his own.

The thoughtless action nurtured within Sandor the hope that one day, she would remember their love; mayhap she would once again choose to be his wife, choose to swear herself to him.

Gendry walked up with two horses, presumably once belonging to the brotherhood, reined and packed and ready to go.

Stranger snorted and pawed the earth.

“Let’s get the fuck outta here, little bird.” Sandor growled low and put the spurs to the large coarser.

* * *

They found an abandoned shack deep within the wood. After reconnoitering the area, Sandor agreed to stop and stay for a while. His arm throbbed constantly; his head hammered out its own refrain, too.

The little bird had passed out from the pain long ago.

Once he settled Sansa inside, Gendry and Arya prepared a small area to sew her wounds closed. Sandor stood apart from them, watching the girl as she boiled the little wine they had left. Gendry busied himself tearing thread from a gown the previous occupants left behind.

A man of action, Sandor felt impotent in the face of Sansa's condition. Disease, injury and death were enemies Sandor could not fight. His own condition was deteriorating, too; the burns from Beric’s sword left him weak and sick.

Arya was surprisingly helpful, which made Sandor feel worse still, misery and guilt churning within him as he watched the girl.

"Gendry, turn your back. Sansa wouldn’t want you to see her like this.” Arya started to unwrap Sansa’s gown.

Suddenly furious, Sandor grabbed her arm.

"Do you even know what in bloody hells you are doing?" He snarled in her face.

"Do you imagine us northern highborns are as useless as the southern ones?” Arya snorted ruefully. “We learn maestering, to manage storehouses and plan the household for the winter, horseback riding, and some even train with weapons, if we so choose. Now, you just get out of my way and let me tend my sister."

She waved him away.

Her audacity infuriated him.

“I’ve been in the sick tents of the battlefield since you were a pup dragging on your mother’s teat, so don’t you turn your back on me! And don’t go making a mess of her, you hear me?” Sandor unsheathed his katar. “Or I'll make you even uglier than you already are, wolf bitch.”

“It’s your fault she’s here in the first place, Hound!” Arya spat at him, the fury glinting in her gray eyes causing him to shrink back. "So if you want to be mad at someone, start with yourself!"

Chastened, Sandor glowered at her.

“I don't expect you to say you're sorry, so spare me the hurt puppy look," Arya defiantly jerked away from him. "I know you care for my sister. It isn’t going to do Sansa any good to stay as she is. And when I’m done, she’ll look better than she does now.”

She lifted her sister’s gown. The slashes were deep and inflamed, but Beric’s sword had burnt Sansa’s injuries closed. The smell of blood and charred flesh wafted through the small cabin, recalling the memory of his own burns.

Gagging, Sandor turned away and emptied his stomach.

Behind him, Arya laughed.

Sandor felt a bit better afterward, and so he settled in a chair to oversee her work. Beside her, Gendry held an oil lamp. Methodically and with great attention to detail, Arya sewed her sister’s abdomen closed.

“Looks good,” Sandor moved next to her as she looked over her work. “Now what are you going to do about her back?”

“I’m getting to that,” Arya sighed impatiently. “Just give me a moment. My hand's cramping. Help me turn her over.”

Sandor held Sansa's body firmly against his own while Arya moved on to her back. The sword's entry wound was far larger than the exit at her belly and it took the girl much longer to close it. Afterward, she poured the hot wine over the wounds and then carefully scrubbed Sansa clean and washed her hair, all the while singing a familiar song to her.

“Where’d you get the soap?” Sandor rasped, watching her pat the little bird’s creamy skin dry. “You don’t look like you've bathed in a moon’s turn.”

“I stole it from the kitchen in Harrenhal,” Arya rolled her eyes. “I’ve been saving it.”

“For what?” Sandor spat back.

“Just shut up about the bloody soap, will you?” Arya struggled to lift Sansa. “Help me get her in this gown before she catches chill.”

“I’m surprised she slept through it.” Sandor commented.

“I gave her a little milk of the poppy which I stole from your brother in Harrenhal.” Arya grinned proudly.

“You’re lucky he didn’t catch you.” Sandor couldn’t help but chuckle. “He’d have skinned you alive.”

“He’s the lucky one,” she hissed. “But not for long.”

Her words carried such venom that Sandor was stunned speechless. As the two worked together, he mulled over how to thank the wolf bitch, his goodsister, for caring for his wife. She wasn't one for flowery speech, unlike Sansa.

“You did well,” Sandor rasped low, “better than any maester. Many thanks.”

Arya just smiled at him. “You’re part of our pack now.”

* * *

Sansa awakened distraught and agitated later that afternoon.

“I worship the old gods and the new,” she repeatedly cried. “Why would the red god bring me back? What if I can’t join Father and the rest in the afterlife now?”

She looked as though she expected to see their ghosts standing around her. Sandor wondered if she could see something he did not.

If their ghosts were indeed present, they had no answer for her. Her cries left Sandor feeling helpless aND enraged by turns.

Before long, Sansa became inconsolable, sobbing and tearing at her clothing.

“Should we give her more milk of the poppy?” Sandor asked.

“I don’t have any more,” Arya worriedly watched Sansa pace the room.

“Please, Sandor - I needs pray. Where are the weirwoods, do you know? Perhaps the old gods are angry and that is the source of the storm.”

The sound of his name on her tongue drove the stake of guilt through his heart. He could not have foreseen her reaction to being raised. He knew not how to comfort her, and Sandor cursed that he had not learned his own wife well enough to soothe her.

All he had learned as a husband was how to fuck her in as many different positions as possible, nothing more. Sandor was disgusted that his greediness for her flesh had taken priority over learning her as a woman. _I don’t even know how to love her,_ he thought miserably. _It’s bloody well time I learned_.

“We’re a ways from a godswood, lass.” Sandor eased her into the chair. “But we’ll find one soon enough.” It was all he could think of to say.

His words did little good.

“Please, I must know where there is a godswood.” Sansa leaped to her feet.

Nymeria whined, and the wolves outside joined their voices, the eerie refrain grating on Sandor’s already frayed nerves.

“Look, sissy, look at the snow. That’s fluffy, northern snow, not the slop they usually get in the Riverlands.” Arya kindly led Sansa to the door and pointed to the lazy snowflakes drifting down. “Winter is coming. This snow is a gift from Father. Look inside yourself.”

She placed Sansa’s hand over her heart. “I know you feel it in your heart, as I do.”

Brightening, Sansa agreed, then turned to Sandor. “Yes, it is true, Sandor. Have you ever seen such snow?”

“No, lass, not since I visited the Wall as a boy.” He answered truthfully. “It’s thicker snow than I’ve ever seen here, just as your sister said.”

Seemingly satisfied, Sansa smiled her first genuine smile. Not for the first time, Sandor prayed to Lord Eddard that his little bird would remember she was a wolf.

“The Kings of Winter brought you back Sansa, not that fire god.” Arya went on, the girl obviously encouraged by Sansa’s response. “Father knows how devoted you are to the old gods and the new, and how upset you would be to have the fire god come to your aid. So he sent a sign in the snow and wolves to reassure you.”

“That _does_ sound like Father, but how can you be certain?” Sansa’s watery eyes looked between them hopefully. “I don’t remember Maester Luwin saying anything at all about the red god.”

“He didn’t, not that I can remember. But I had a friend in Harrenhal who worshiped the red god. He told me that the fire god can’t bring the snow.” Arya went on.

"Oh," Sansa turned to her sister, “that is good to know.”

“The Kings of Winter saved you; you mustn’t worry.” Arya rubbed her arms. “You don’t need the trees for the old gods hear you. Say your prayers now. We’ll find you a weirwood.”

Blankly Sansa agreed, clutching the material of her gown and kneeling on the dirt floor. When finished, Sansa hesitantly tried to stand.

Sandor offered her his hand. Smiling, Sansa stared at their entwined fingers and her cheeks blushed prettily.

“My gown.” She shyly looked up at him. “I need to cover myself.”

Sandor watched her, the tears glistening in her eyes sending a corresponding pain through his heart.

“What am I to wear? I cannot use this gown.” She looked up at him. “It is far too fine with my injury. And I must have bandages-“ Sobbing, Sansa knelt to the floor.

“It’s going to be alright, Sansa. I already tended your wounds, and soon you’ll be good as new.” Arya pulled her mouth into a tight grin. “I bathed you and washed your hair while you slept. I found a few ladies’ gowns and Sandor helped me dress you, too.”

Her cheeks pinking, Sansa shyly gazed up at him through lowered lashes. “You did?”

“Aye.”

“Thank you, husband.” She bit her lower lip and smiled.

He could see she was trying out the word on her lips. _Maybe she will remember after all._ Willing the lump in his throat away, Sandor remained silent as he carefully laid the items in front of Sansa.

“See, there’s plenty for you, little bird, and enough to make bandages too.” Sandor explained as she looked over the garments. “Best choose roughspun for travel.”

“Yes, you are so clever,” Sansa hesitantly rested her small hand on his forearm. “We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”

 _She’s warm,_ Sandor marveled as he held his arm out to her, _warm and soft and so very beautiful...kind and polite and a true lady. She's still my little bird, my Sansa._

“Come, lass. I can help you change – or your sister, if you’d rather she do it.”

Uncertainly Sansa glanced at Arya, who nodded encouragingly.

It killed Sandor that Sansa didn’t remember that they had many times bathed together, that she enjoyed the way he washed her hair and body, and that it always ended in passionate lovemaking before a warm fire.

He knew she would not want him staring at her nude body, knew she would not want him to touch her or bathe her or love her, yet he longed to caress her skin, longed for the intimacy and comfort only his wife could bring him. Desperate, he was helpless to keep his mouth shut.

“I won’t look at you.” Sandor offered lamely. "No matter how much I wish to do so."

“We are wed. Arya said so,” Sansa straightened her back, though her voice trembled as she spoke. “Forgive me, but I don’t remember our marriage, or our courtship.” She began to cry. “But I want…I want to be a good wife. A good companion. I want to rebuild what we had.”

_She’s dutiful, just like her father, dutiful and determined._

“I want that too.” Sandor rasped quietly. In truth, he wanted more from her, a far better kind of love than what they had before. He vowed within his heart that he would be more open with her, more trusting, less bitter and biting in his speech toward her. Sandor longed to be closer to her, intimate in all respects and not reserve his expressions of emotion for the bedroom.

Losing Sansa taught him her worth, and a hard lesson it was indeed. He would be damned if he would go back and act toward her as he once did. But Sandor had no idea where to start. _Mayhap we can start here, now._

“I don’t give one buggering stag about what’s proper, Sansa,” Sandor ground out his words. “I only meant for your comfort. I will do whatever you wish. It's a start.”

Lowering her eyes, Sansa pensively played with her sash. "Yes, I suppose it is."

“Lady Sansa, you must be thirsty. I’ll bring in some water,” Gendry hurried outside, and after giving them a knowing look, Arya followed.

“I wish for you to help me change, Sandor.” Sansa softly asked him, a slight pink coloring her pale cheeks. “I seem to move slowly these days. I – I need you.”

Speechless, Sandor looked intently at her. When she first admitted she did not remember being his wife, it nearly destroyed him, and he expected she would want nothing more to do with him.

Following his gaze to her stomach, Sansa began to cry while wringing her hands.

“But, if you don’t want to, I understand. I-I am repulsive. I am too horrible to look upon! I wouldn't blame you if you never wanted me again!”

“Little bird,” Sandor gently reached out to her as though she were a frightened colt. “Don’t fret, girl. It's not as bad as all that. I’ve seen plenty worse.”

For a moment he feared she had detected his lie, but Sansa merely stared at him, her huge blue eyes full of uncertainty.

“Come now. I’ll help you." Sandor beckoned to her. "You just startled me being so open.”

“I am your _wife_ ,” Sansa spoke rather bitterly, “and whether I remember or not, it is time I acted like it. I should ask you for help, not her.”

Sandor openly gaped at her, the man too surprised to form coherent thought.

“I-I know it is hard to understand, but I am slowly beginning to remember things about our life together,” she blushed as she tried to explain. “That is why I feel more comfortable with you than what you must have expected.”

“What _do_ you remember?” Sandor stepped closer to her. Gently he reached out and tipped her face up to him. “Tell me, lass.”

“I remember feelings – I felt safe with you, warm. I also felt love and…desired.” Her eyes shone as she spoke. “It is hard to explain. It is as though I am in a dream, seeing our lives through a foggy mist.” Sighing, Sansa shook her head. “You must think I have lost my mind.”

Tentatively Sandor stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. “No, I don’t.”

They stared at each other in awkward silence until Sansa softly asked: “You have seen worse burns and cuts before, Sandor? When?”

Gingerly Sandor eased the gown off her shoulders.

“Did you forget the Blackwater?” He rasped in her ear.

Shivering, Sansa blushed down to her chest.

“If there was one event I wish to forget, it is the Blackwater Battle.” Tears streamed down her pale cheeks. “I wish we _both_ could forget it.”

“Hush with the tears, now,” Sandor quieted her. “What else do you recall?”

She gave him a watery smile that tore at his heart.

“I remember singing you a song that night. I remember you offering to take me away. I was so surprised, so very surprised, and grateful beyond words. And I remember riding on your great black horse.”

He remembered that too. The feel of her soft body pressed against him, the smell of her hair in his face, her gentle touch and lilting voice. Yes, he remembered it all, and that fact she did too gave his sore heart much needed comfort.

“Sandor?” She whispered after a bit.

“Hmm?” Sandor tried to focus on helping her step into her gown.

“What am I?” Taking his hand, Sansa stilled him as she stared deeply into his eyes. Sandor’s breath caught at her loveliness.

“What do you mean, little bird?” He finally managed.

“You have always told me the truth, that much I remember,” Sansa searched his face. “So please tell me. What am I now?”

“You’re Sansa Stark. My wife. My little bird.” Sandor began trembling. “Why do you ask? What do you think you are?”

“I must confess that I don’t really know what I am.” Sansa blankly placed her hand over the grisly slash bisecting her abdomen. “I am neither alive nor dead. I am neither a maiden nor a wife, and I will never be a mother. The only thing that I know for certain is that I am utterly revolting.”

Panic took hold of him, the man remembering all too clearly once feeling the same. Sandor gripped her chin firmly and refused to let her turn away.

“You are still the pretty little thing I married, believe that.”

“I cannot imagine how horrible this is for you, how much pain I have caused you, and it makes me sick to think on it,” she wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “Did the Lannisters…did they give me to you?”

“What the fuck does it matter?” Sandor bitterly asked, averting his gaze.

“It does to me,” Sansa confessed, drawing up both hands to her chest.

“If you must know, I stole you from them. We married after we left King’s Landing.”

Hopefully she raised her brow with a small smile.

“Did we…did we wed for love, Sandor?”

“Aye, little bird,” Sandor blinked back tears and cleared his throat. “We did indeed.”

“That makes me happy.” Suddenly her gentle smile disappeared. “But death broke our bond.”

Sandor had indeed lost a wife to death, even though she had come back to him. Unable to bear the conversation any longer, Sandor started to turn away.

“Aye, true enough, that. You needn’t look on my ugly face any more. I’ll send your sister to you.”

Desperately she clutched his arm. “Sandor, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean-“

“You have nothing to be sorry about, lass, believe that.” Sandor could hardly breathe. “And I’ll not force you to remarry me.”

Looking down, Sansa wrapped her arms around her middle.

“It isn’t that. I don’t know how I feel just yet, Sandor – about anything. I am so confused. Please, be patient with me.” Sansa began to sob hard into his chest.

“You’re alright now, little bird," Sandor caressed her cheek. "You're alright. You've been through an ordeal, but we have time,” he whispered, the words reassuring them both. “We have plenty of time.”

"Yes," she rested her hand over his own. "We have plenty of time."

* * *

Sansa remained mostly silent during the rest of the day but that night, she grew frantic once more. As the snow deepened, the call of the wolves grew louder, drawing her outside their shelter.

When Sandor tried to stop her, Arya shook her head and stepped between them.

“Leave Sansa be, Hound.” She put her hand on his arm. “You're out of your element. Now let me tend that arm while she’s gone. It’s putrefying; I can smell it from here.”

Grudgingly he submitted, for Sandor had seen enough lacerations to recognize that he was in real danger. It would be the final, cruelest irony to have the gods return Sansa only to take his life in return. Sandor needed to stay alive for her sake, if not his own, so he submitted to Arya’s attentions.

Nymeria dutifully followed Sansa into the wood.

“You would leave your elder to them?” He spat at her as his eyes followed Sansa’s lithe form to the mouth of the cave. “Wolves you call yourselves, but wolves you are not. Don’t you even care about your sister wandering off with those fucking beasts?”

“She’s safer with Nymeria than with us, Hound,” Arya answered with a faraway look. “She’ll watching over her, and she’ll keep her warm.” Shaking herself, the girl began unwrapping his crude bandages.

“How can you fucking know that?” Irritably Sandor grabbed her by the tunic. “Tell me straight. Don’t talk in those fucking riddles you Starks are so fond of - speak plain.”

“I can watch over her through my wolf.” Arya shrugged as she wrapped fresh bandages around his arm. “So Sansa isn’t alone.”

He scoffed at her, but inwardly, Sandor wondered if such a thing was possible. So many extraordinary things were happening now: uncanny, fantastical occurrences that once lived only in the realm of fairy tales. But after what he had witnessed, the man was not as swift to dismiss them.

“I know you've heard of warging. Well, it's a family gift. I can see Sansa through Nymeria. I think that's what happened to Sansa when she passed, too.” Arya explained. “There were plenty of wolves about, and she said she could see them, smell the dirt at their feet. Did you see her eyes go all milky?"

"Aye."

"Well, warging into the wolf probably helped her come back." Arya tied the bandage securely. "And that's why you need to let her go."

Eagerly Gendry awaited his retort, the young man seeming to hedge his opinion on his own. With great difficulty, Sandor swallowed his derision and remained silent. Could such explain Sansa's return? He had so many questions and no one to answer them. Never had he felt so alone. Briefly his mind went back to Jaime Lannister and his tales of a holy man on the Quiet Isle whose superior healing abilities bordered on the uncanny – a man who once had died himself. A man he called Elder Brother.

“You don’t have to believe me, but it’s true.” Arya angrily yanked the new dressings into a knot, shaking him out of his thoughts. “You said a dog can sniff out a lie.”

“Aye I can, lass,” Sandor sighed. “Joff always said you Starks had an unnatural attachment to your wolves.”

“We’ll just see who makes it through the winter,” Arya snarled back, “The pack will survive, and the Lannisters will not.”

“You seem certain of that.” Sandor eyed her warily. The girl’s seemingly endless supply of rage, so like his own, exhausted him.

“I am,” Arya hissed and brought the soiled cloth up to her nose. Twisting up her face, she held it at arm’s length. “When we get out of this area, I’m going for my mother and brother.”

Gendry spoke up. “I’ll go with you.”

“No! You’ll not leave my sight.” Sandor cut them off. “Sansa would never forgive me.”

A small wicked smile curled on the wolf girl’s mouth.

“You can’t stop me. You’re gravely wounded and feverish. The wound’s festering, Hound. I’ll go to my brother, get help and return. You’ll have to stay here with Sansa.”

"Bother the arm,” Sandor tried to stand but a wave of dizziness set him on his heels. “You expect me to wait for you in this thrice damned shack? You’ve lost your bloody mind for true.”

“You have to, for Sansa’s sake.” Arya shouted. “My mother will know how to help her. My brother has his army and there are maesters and healers among them. I need to get to them.”

“You do whatever you want, wolf bitch,” Sandor snarled back, “but me and the little bird leave at first light.”

* * *

In the morning, Sandor found Sansa asleep on the porch with the enormous she-wolf curled protectively around her body. When she awakened, she spoke nothing of her night away from them, and went on as though nothing out of the ordinary had taken place. Surprisingly, she instead had taken up acting the ever dutiful wife, bathing his brow and feeding him water by the spoonful, and Sandor did not press her.

"Here, just a little more," she coaxed until he sputtered.

“Come. Time to leave.”

“Where are you going, Hound?” Arya asked.

“The Quiet Isle, near the Saltpans,” Sandor answered. “There’s a healer there, a holy man of the Seven. It’s said he can cure anyone. Mayhap he can help Sansa.” He felt the little bird's fingers graze over his hand. Arya’s eyes traveled over his pus soaked bandages.

“Well, you go on, then. I’m going to find my mother and brother.”

“You’re going to leave your sister?” Sandor snarled out. “Why you little piece of-“

Sansa began to cry. “Arya, must you go?”

“I _have_ to, sissy.” She took Sansa’s hand. “I'll bring Mother back, and Robb too. She can help you.”

Dejectedly Sansa assented.

 _Why would the wolf bitch insist on leaving her sister?_ Suddenly a dark fury shrouded him, leaving Sandor breathless and nauseous.

“You just want your kingly brother to take my head and give Sansa to another lordling – one of those bloody Umbers, mayhap! I’ll send that red headed pup you call a brother to the Stranger before I let that happen! I swear it on all of your fucking gods – she’s mine!”

His head throbbed with each word, making him dizzy, so abruptly Sandor stopped speaking.

Arya’s mouth hung open, while Sansa whimpered in his arms.

“That’s not it at all-“

“Bugger that horseshit!” Sandor roared, his fury frightening both Sansa and Gendry. “If you leave Sansa now, you can just keep on going and never come back, you understand me? And if I ever see you or any of your kin, I’ll fucking cut-"

“Would you just shut up and listen to me?” Arya shouted over him. “I don’t have time for this. Winter is coming.”

“If I never hear one of you fucking Starks say that again, it’ll be too soon!” Sandor yelled so loud that his head rang. “Fuck that shit to the seven hells!”

“Winter _is_ coming for us all, and Sansa needs Mother and Robb. I'm going to bring them to her.” Arya frowned at him.

“The deserters will cut you down before you reach the first Kingsroad marker.” Sandor rasped low, shaking his head. "Fool girl."

The wolf girl distractedly looked about.

“You’re heading to the Quiet Isle, you say?”

Nodding once, Sandor wordlessly followed her outside.

“Arya, thank you for everything,” Sansa quietly took her hand. “I don’t deserve your kindness. I was so beastly to you growing up.”

“Never mind that, sissy.” Arya kissed her.

“Take your wolf,” Sansa begged. “She’ll keep you safe. I have Sandor.”

Satisfaction welled within Sandor at her words. _She does remember; else why would she say such?_

Whirling her horse around, Arya cast one last sad look at Sansa, kicked the animal in the flanks, and rode off. Gendry followed after her.

Leaning down, Sandor nuzzled Sansa in the neck. “It’ll be alright, little bird.” He kissed her tear streaked cheek and led her toward Stranger. “Now let’s you and me go on to the Quiet Isle.”


	3. Chapter 3

Sandor found the grassy Riverlands temperate enough, ambling hills and terraced fields interspersed with meadows and evergreen woods and dawdling, shallow brooks. Farmland gave way to forest, the settlements and holdfasts smaller and farther apart, the hills higher and the valleys deeper. The cool breeze soothed his fevered skin, and there was plenty of water and game to be had despite the touch of war on the land. The air still smelled faintly of smoke, the foul reality violating the quiet pastoral landscape. They had met very few people along the switchbacks and travel had been easy.

If circumstances had been different, the man might have enjoyed their travels, for it pleased him to show Sansa the green land. She even smiled up at him in the old familiar way when he pointed out a family of rabbits alongside the trail. It gave him hope, what little there was to be had. But it was not a pleasant trip by any measure, and Sandor was not one to delude himself. They had to reach the Quiet Isle as quickly as possible, before the grievous injury to his arm rendered him unable to travel, or worst still, unable to protect them.

Despite her shyness, Sansa dutifully cared for him. Each night she oiled and bandaged his wounds, preparing food and setting up the bed rolls. Wraithlike and beautiful, Sansa moved around their camp with a familiar grace and elegance which enthralled Sandor. Day after day, she grew bolder, though her cheeks blushed deeply. Tentative touches gave way to gentle squeezes on the arm. She was still shy with him, but she smiled whenever she looked at him, the same smile that he knew was only for him.

When his fever raged worst, she overcame the last of her barriers and climbed in the bedrolls behind him and cradled him in her thin arms. She was warm and alive and so very soft, and the feel of her small body pressed against him was the only pleasure life afforded and so Sandor quietly submitted without complaint.

“Maester Luwin said body warmth causes a crisis in a fever,” Sansa breathlessly explained, her cheeks flaming as she spoke. “It is not improper for us to do so.” She moved behind him and settled his head on her breast while wrapping her arms and legs around his great body.

“Aye, quite so,” Sandor bit back a laugh and relented, leaning into her embrace. "Wouldn't want to be improper, would we?"

“Tell me about our wedding, Sandor.” Sansa whispered softly into his ear, her lips brushing against his skin like a kiss with each word.

A sharp pain coursed through his chest. His mouth felt hot and dry and Sandor struggled to force his lips to form words out of the sweetest memory.

“We married a moon’s turn after we left King’s Landing.” He finally spoke.

“And what else?” Sansa gently prompted, her soft hand cool against his fevered brow. “Tell me.”

“Why in Seven hells do you ask questions when I can hardly catch my breath, woman?”

Carefully she brought the water skin to his lips and allowed him to drink deeply.

“Better then?” Her finger trailed over the wetness on his chapped lips, spreading it there.

“Aye, lass.” Sandor stared up at her, enthralled by her touch. “A right beauty you are, you know that?”

Shyly she lowered her eyes, a small giggle gracing her lips. “Thank you, husband.”

“Are you sure you aren’t being so endearing just because you want to, lass?” Sandor waggled his brow at her, earning him another laugh. "Seems you like holding on to me."

“Maester Luwin taught us it was important to think happy thoughts when we were ill. It aids in healing and shows the gods that we have true faith they will help us.” Her cheeks pinked.

“Bugger your maester, lass,” Sandor snorted, his mood souring. “No god would wish to save me, believe that.”

She pinched his chin, causing him to start. “Hush with that now. They saved you the night of the battle. I prayed for the Mother to gentle your rage, for her to save you, and she did, didn’t she?”

Sandor harrumphed. 

"They did and you know it, though you’ll never admit it. And they saved you from the outlaws, too.”

Stubbornly Sandor shook his head, the man too weak to argue.

“You saved me,” Sandor finally ground out, “on both scores. And I’ll not give to a buggering god what rightly belongs to my lady wife, no matter your honeyed words.” He watched Sansa purse her lips together, her cheeks flushing prettily.

“They returned your wife to you, is that no so?”

Shame thrummed through Sandor then. “Aye, I suppose they did.” He allowed after a while.

“I want to know more about our wedding.” She played with the ties on his tunic. “Will you tell me more?”

“What’s to know? It was wedding, same as all others.” His temples throbbed with each word spoken.

Sansa wrinkled her nose at him, clearly displeased. “You’re the only person who remembers our wedding.”

She never looked prettier than when she was angry, and so Sandor finally relented. “It was warm that day, the first break in the rain that we’d seen.”

A fit of coughing took him and Sansa smoothed her hand over his chest.

“What of my gown, Sandor?” Sansa dabbed his forehead. “Was it pretty?”

“Aye, pretty as you. A thin white thing you had embroidered little birds on it. You had woven snow drops into your plaiting.” Sandor leaned in close and growled low in her ear. “Gods be good, I liked it better on the floor of our nuptial chamber.”

Her cheeks reddening, Sansa’s breath quickened, ghosting over his fevered brow as she laughed softly. “I’m sure you did. “ She peeked up at him. “How was our first kiss?”

“The sweetest I’ve ever known.” He grinned lasciviously at her.

Sansa smiled, though her eyes filled with tender tears. “I wish I remembered it."

"We'll have us another one day, little bird." An awkward silence flowed between them.

Sansa spoke first. "Did a septon marry us?”

“No, daft woman," Sandor shook his head in disbelief. "You think I’d go looking for a bloody septon when the whole of King’s Landing was after us?”

“No, of course not.” Sansa turned her nose up and sniffed pointedly. “I thought maybe a traveling brother or some such.”

“Bugger the Seven. We found one of those bleeding saplings you northerners worship along the banks of the Red Fork.” Sandor sighed heavily. “You thought it a miracle, a sign we should marry on the very spot.”

“A weirwood growing along the Red Fork?” Excitedly Sansa cupped his face so she could look into his eyes. “Speak truly now.”

“Don’t I always tell you the truth?” He hissed at her, gripping her chin. “I’d not start lying to you over this, believe that!”

Sheepishly she nodded. “Forgive me.”

“So it was there, red as your hair, growing among the evergreens and moss. Must have been taken to root there after they anointed your kingly brother.” Sandor coughed again, sputtering as he labored for breath.

Sadly she surveyed him, worrying her lip as she did so.

“What is it now, woman?” Sandor barked harshly.

“I fear that you are getting worse,” Sansa softly replied. “I have done all I can,  but your wounds are running infection and your fever is high. You may not survive. And there are carriages drawing closer. I can hear them."

“I hear nothing, bloody hells,” Sandor tried to rise. Staggering, he fell back on his seat. “Carriages, you say?”

“Yes. I smell them, too,” Sansa turned her face toward the sky. “Men, a dog, and horses as well. But I do not believe they are soldiers, for I do not scent armor or fear, for that matter.”

Sandor always suspected fear had a scent beyond the physical responses it provoked in men. When he was a boy, Sandor’s greatfather taught him that dogs had the ability to distinguish those who feared them from those who did not. He wanted to tell her, as well as ask her more about it, but his words died in his mouth as Sansa rose to her feet.

“The wolves are following them.” She announced finally as she stroked his hair. “They are close. Maybe a quarter of an hour at most.”

“Wolves and dogs always follow men, looking for an easy meal.” Sandor responded dismissively.

“Wolves and dogs also look out for their own, you know,” Sansa answered with a faraway look in her eyes. “They will help us. Your brothers and mine.”

“You speak truly,” was all Sandor could think of to say then. Many eerie things had taken place, and he found them more and more difficult to refute and in any case, he was too ill to argue with the stubborn bird.

“Sandor, you will not be able to fight them if they mean us harm,” she leaned down and stroked his unshaven cheek. “You are too weak, too ill.”

Sandor sighed heavily and took a long pull from his wine skin. “Aye, mayhap not.”

She met his gaze, the gravity in her eyes alarming him. “Promise me, Sandor.”

“What, lass?”

“Just say you will do as I ask. Give me your word.” She looked away from him.

Something in her tone made his skin crawl.

“Not without knowing what it is you want.” Sandor growled out. “You know better than that.”

“If we are found, Sandor, promise me you will give me the gift of mercy,” she took his hand and pressed it to her heart. “Please.”

“Fuck,” he gaped at her, then hissed as his hands met the tender yielding flesh of her breast as though he were burned. “I cannot-I could never! Buggering hells!” The air gusted from his lungs, bringing on another coughing fit.

“Don’t leave me alone in this world like this,” Sansa gestured to her middle, her eyes sorrowful and yet resigned. “Half wraith, half woman. There is no place for me. I will be considered an abomination. Please, let me take you into the afterlife where we can begin again.” Her eyes lit up then. “We can start a new life, one without sickness and pain. We will laugh, eat, and love each other. Say you will.”

She almost sound excited by the prospect. It sickened him that death had become her preferred outcome.

“Sansa, you don’t know what you’re saying, lass-“ Sandor choked out, his tongue suddenly thick in his mouth.

“I do! You’ve killed innocents before, Sandor-people who meant nothing to you. You promised to keep me safe,” she insisted fiercely, grabbing hold of him. “You said no one would hurt me again or you would kill them. What do you think will happen to me if you are gone?”

Sandor remained silent, fever and grief muddying his thoughts.

“You know very well, and so do I.” Sansa shook her head as if trying to dispel the image from her mind. “There are no true knights, no more than there are gods, remember? If you can’t protect yourself, die and get out of the way of those who can. Sharp steel and strong arms rule this world, don’t ever believe any different. If there are gods, they made sheep so wolves could eat mutton, and they made the weak for the strong to play with. I remember those words of yours, Sandor. I remember and I learned from them.”

Speechless and defeated, Sandor slumped back and stared at her. “Never thought you’d take this route, girl.”

“Yes, I suppose you wouldn’t,” Sansa set her jaw. “You always did say I had my head caught in fairy tales. Well, death has made me practical. So free me of this life.”

“What are you saying?” Sandor snapped his head toward her. “Out with it!”

“My family will not accept me as I am now.” She hastily brushed a tear away from her cheeks. “I am no good to my family and no better than one of the Others in the eyes of the whole of Westeros. I have no place in this life without you. You of all people know what it is to be different, to have people fear you, to have people not understand you. So keep your word to me and do as I ask one last time.”

Bitterness threatened to make him empty his stomach. She spoke truly, he knew, and yet he could not do as she asked. Sandor turned away, unable to bear her despondency.

“Let me choose how I end this time, Sandor,” Sansa beat her fist against her breast, “You denied me before; do not do so a second time.”

“The little bird has grown fierce, has she now?” Sandor snorted despondently.

“The little bird returned as a wolf.” Her eyes glimmered as she spoke. “Have I not?”

“That you have, lass,” Sandor took a long draw off the water skin, “that you have.” He waved her into his arms, and at once she was by his side.

“I saw my father, when Beric’s blade entered my back. I saw him, and Lady sat at his feet. They were waiting for me, and so was the shade of Robb and Grey Wind and my mother. Likely they are already dead.” She held his face in her hands. “Let me die as a wolf, in a manner of my own choosing.” Sansa leaned in then and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “And I will wait for you on the other side as they wait for me.”

Sandor studied her, the man hardly recognizing the determined young woman before him. _She was not made for this life. She was made for gentler things. Pretty things, peaceful things._ This life had given him little besides misery, pain and grief. _Maybe it would not be so bad to begin again with her, as she said._

“I’ll think on it when the time comes,” he growled at her softly, “but not before. So no more such talk.” When she started to protest, he held up his hand. “Enough with you now, lass.”

Satisfied, Sansa snuggled against him, pressing her silky cheek against his chest. He could feel her skin through the gaps in the lacings of his tunic. _So soft and warm. And alive. Surely her gods hadn’t brought her back for this._ It was then Sandor realized that she had asked the impossible of him, and that this was one thing he could never do for her.

“I’m sorry I have forgotten how we fell in love, how we wed,” she whispered against his skin. “It is dreadful for you and for me as well. But know this, Sandor: I remember the feelings we shared. I remember your love in my heart, if not my mind, and our love lives there still, sleeping, waiting for my mind to awaken it. I do love you; that has not changed. Wolves mate for life, you know.” She laughed softly to herself.

Sandor had no words for her, no comfort, no consolation for the woman who had given him his life, his heart, his soul. Swallowing down his grief, he pulled her tightly against him in response.

“Close your eyes, little bird,” he rasped into the crown of her hair. “You needs rest.”

Sandor closed his eyes for how long he did not know. The jingling of reigns played in the distance, awakening him, but no matter how Sandor tried, he could not open his eyes. The sound of footfall drew closer. He felt the loss of Sansa’s warmth from his side.

“My lady, your husband is gravely wounded. Please put down the knife.” An unfamiliar voice said.

Why would Sansa have a knife? He needed to help her. Why in bloody hells couldn’t he open his eyes? His legs felt as leaden, as if they were cast in irons.

“Brother, thank the old gods and the new! I did not mean to pull my weapon on you, it’s just that we’ve had trouble, you see. Please, help my husband,” he heard Sansa sob out, her words broken. “We were on our way to a healer on the Quiet Isle when he passed out. I have not been able to awaken him.”

The rest of her words were muffled to Sandor, as though spoken under water. Sandor mustered his strength, thrashing and cursing, when he felt a warm hand on his shoulder.

“The Seven have smiled on both of you, my child,” a man’s deep voice resonated. “I am Elder Brother, the healer of whom your wife speaks. You are safe now. Rest.”

Nausea flooded his stomach, along with a deep sense of relief. After that, the world went dark for Sandor Clegane.


End file.
